As soon as the public saw Christopher Marlowe alive, this broke the twig. But that image is too soft. For it wasn’t a snap, rather the very world seemed to erupt.
It’s news you’ll hear soon that there was a fire at the Tearsheet, leading to the collapse of it and the neighboring buildings too, with many lives lost. ’Tisn’t wrong, that. But ’tisn’t complete either; ’tis but a story they are telling to be making sense of what they cannot understand. Fire there was, or something akin to fire. But cold there was too, bitter cold, and bursts of wind that struck like fists, and inhalations that made stout buildings shrink into themselves like a dried leaf crumpled in the hand. But this was more than a mere trick of the air. The very fabric of the world was misbehaving. Think of how ’tis when vomiting, in the moment just before the muck in your stomach rushes up your gorge, when ’tis as though your entire body is clenching itself, trying to turn itself inside out like a stocking. Now in your mind’s eye see the Tearsheet and the neighboring buildings—the entire neighborhood—the ground itself and the air above it, the very ether, all doing likewise. Tristan and I were thrown down so hard that we skidded, and drew ourselves up to our feet only when the river came after us as if ’twere alive.
Those fortunate enough to be outside the lomadh could save themselves by running fast enough, and never looking back. Nearly knocked down we were, by several who’d tried to get clear by leaping off the embankment and into the ditch. Those on the inside, such as my poor Kit, and Pym, and Les Holgate, were quickly snuffed out with barely time to scream—or so I tell myself, as I don’t like to imagine what worse fates might have befallen them. But didn’t those in between—neither to one side nor the other of the lomadh, but caught in the fringes of it—suffer in the most dreadful ways. Impossible monstrosities their bodies became, like two-headed calves you sometimes see stillborn at home (not among Your Grace’s cattle but often enough around Lough Swilly or Killybegs), and then out of that impossibility, decaying like rotten fish in sunlight, flesh coming off so quickly it fizzed and sprayed, and those it sprayed on caught it like leprosy and went down to fates of the same nature. A mercy it was that flames consumed what remained.
Milady, never have I believed in the priest’s tales of Hell, discounting it all as a load of bollocks. But if the lomadh has occurred in other times and places, surely it explains where stories of Hell originated. Any soul unversed in magic, who wasn’t knowing the true nature of what they witnessed, would try to explain what Tristan and I saw by claiming that the mouth of Hell itself had, for a moment, opened upon this mortal coil.
But only for a moment. After that, just a fire it was. And who’s to say whether ’twas a ravage or a blessing, for it burned to ashes many an abomination spawned of the lomadh. So it seems to me now, upon reflection. But in the moment I could not help thinking of Kit and Morag and Pym and the other wenches of the Tearsheet. No sooner had we got clear of the catastrophe than I wished to return, in case any of them might be saved. We were down in that filthy ditch yet and I began looking about for a handhold I might use to climb up to the street. I saw none, and it’s more and more exasperated I became, until all of a sudden there’s a hand right in front of my face, reaching down. It’s a hand in a white kid glove, expensive, immaculate. My gaze follows the arm upward until I’m looking into a man’s face. He’s above me on the pavement, squatting down, offering his hand to pull me up. A yellow beard, waxed and groomed to a sharp point, and the fanciest and most fetching hat, with a gorgeous plume on it. It’s for the first time now that I’m seeing both of Athanasius Fugger’s eyes, for doesn’t he have the queerest habit of keeping his hat pulled down low and cocked to one side. I’m struck, in the midst of all the chaos and lamentation of the lomadh, by a peculiarity of the man’s face. The pupil of the left eye—the one he prefers to hide behind his hat—is larger than the other. Stuck open, as it were. You might say it were an odd thing for me to attend to in such circumstances, but for some reason it struck me clearly in the moment.
I reached up and lay my palm upon his and felt his strong grip. Putting his legs and his back into it, he drew me up out of that ditch and got me safe up to the street. For the first time now I could see the fire and smoke burgeoning from what was left of the Tearsheet. That held my attention while he squatted down again, and helped Tristan just as he’d helped me. For which Tristan thanked him, in that clipped and wary manner that passes between men who are not sure of each other’s intentions.
By the time we worked our way back round to the Tearsheet’s former entrance, there was nothing left of tavern or of brewery. People had scattered, coughing, bleeding, dazed, gibbering like madmen. I saw old Simon Beresford staggering confusedly down the street. Not one other member of our party was to be seen. Les Holgate was no more. No more Morag, or Pym. The other wenches of the bawdy-house. And worst of all, at least for me although of no note to another soul: no more Kit Marlowe.
And of course, no more Tearsheet Brewery, the only place in London where ever I was safe.
Diachronicle
DAY 390
In which—finally—we seem to learn from experience
TRISTAN STAGGERED OUT OF THE ODEC in a terrible state. He was bruised and his hair disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and his skin almost grey. I felt a little sick seeing him: whatever happened, it could have been worse, and thank God it wasn’t. I reached for the intercom button, then drew my hand back. He did not look in the mood for a conversation. We could only chew our thumbnails and speculate as he put himself through decontamination.
When he emerged, I did not resist the impulse to embrace him. But he caught me up short as my arms reached around him, and politely pressed me away from himself. He gestured gingerly to his left forearm. “Hairline fracture,” he whispered hoarsely. “Possibly.”
“Let’s go to the emergency room,” I said, reaching for his good arm, but he shook his head.
“Debrief first. Call the Odas.”
“They can meet us in the ER—”
“Here. Now.” He staggered down the hall toward the toilets.
I telephoned. Rebecca said they could be there in ten minutes. Erszebet came with them, for Rebecca had been soothing her after the drama of the morning.
Tristan sequestered himself in the conference room, on a video conference to Frink, until the others had arrived. When finally it was the five of us, and the video screen, so long the bane of our existence, had been shut off and unplugged, he glanced about the table at us, then looked down briefly, then back up and said in a heavy voice, “Les Holgate is dead.”
“Excellent,” said Erszebet immediately, before the rest of us could so much as draw breath. “He deserved it.”
Tristan gave her an angry look. He seemed about to say something but then contained himself.
“That’s horrible,” I said. “Who killed him?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t a who, it was a what.” He took a moment, briefly pressed his good hand to his forehead, and began again. “He arranged a scheme that had elements he hadn’t considered or thought out. I tried to foil it but there were unforeseeable complications. And then . . .” He looked at a lost for words. “The brewery blew up. Everyone inside of it was killed.”
“There was an explosion?” Frank Oda asked.
“No!” Tristan said firmly. “Something I can’t describe. Explosion, implosion, turning inside out, being put through a blender, fire, ice . . . worse things too.”
Erszebet looked solemn, and sighed. “Diakrónikus nyírás,” she said quietly. “Diachronic, mmm . . .” She made a broad, sideways chopping gesture with both hands. “Shear. Diachronic Shear. There is a separating.” She shook her head. “I even tried to warn Les Holgate because his ideas were so extreme. Very bad. I have heard of it but never seen it.”
“What does it mean exactly?” asked Frank Oda.
“And what do we do about it?” Tristan followed.
“Can we go back on another Strand and fix it somehow?” asked
Frank Oda.
Her eyes widened slightly, and she shook her head. “Oh. No. No, it’s over. His existence—the existence of everything caught up in the Shear—it is gone forever, across all Strands. You cannot even go to look for him. He is gone. Full stop.”
“That’s horrible,” I said again.
“Why? He was a terrible person,” said Erszebet. And then, softening: “But I am sure there were innocent people destroyed too. It is very sad for them and their families.” She looked thoughtful. “I thought perhaps this was apocryphal because I never met anyone who had experienced it. The last one in Europe was Paris, 1777. I suppose by my time everybody knew better than to risk it.”
“Who else was lost in this Diachronic Shear?” Rebecca asked. “Gráinne must have survived or you could not have gotten back here.”
Tristan looked as if another hundred-pound weight had settled upon his shoulders. “She’s not the one who Sent me back,” he said. “After the chaos, the young English witch named Rose found me and offered to return me here.”
“We’ve lost Gráinne?”
He grimaced. “She’s not dead. She’s not even physically injured, but I think there’s other damage. As well as killing Les, the lomadh took Gráinne’s lover, and her boss, and of course destroyed the Tearsheet itself, which has been her home for ten years. She’s an unwed Irishwoman in Elizabeth’s London. The Tearsheet was her sanctuary. When I last saw her she was hysterical.”
“Of course she was,” said Erszebet quietly. She had gone quite pale and still. “It is a horrible thing to be torn from your security. This poor woman.”
Something didn’t add up. “How could you leave her in that condition?” I asked. For all of Tristan’s mysterious ways, I knew him well enough to know that he would not simply abandon Gráinne.
“She’s being looked after,” Tristan said, “at least temporarily.”
“Who’s looking after her?”
“Athanasius Fugger.”
There was a long pause while we absorbed that.
“You left her in the hands of a Fucker!?” Erszebet exclaimed.
“Why would he, of all people—” I began.
“I’ll tell you what I know,” Tristan said. “He was there. On the scene. Close enough to see it, far enough away that he didn’t get—involved, or whatever you call it—in the Diachronic Shear. He must have followed me and Gráinne. He helped us up out of the ditch. He accompanied us back to the scene of the fire. Gráinne was losing it. Fugger puts an arm around her shoulder, draws her in, she’s sobbing on his shoulder. He looks up at me—there’s something very weird about his gaze—and says, ‘I believe it’s time for you to go back to where you belong. You know another witch who can do it. Go and reflect.’ And he nodded at the fire, then looked back at me in a very serious way. ‘I’ll see to her,’ he added, nodding at Gráinne, and then he turned his back on me. That was the last I saw of them.”
“‘Go back to where you belong . . . go and reflect . . .’” I repeated. “He knows.”
“They all know,” Erszebet spat. “All of the Fuckers. They always have. How do you think I have survived all these years without my own means? The Fuckers knew I was temporally indentured and saw to it that I remained alive and functional. They know everything.”
“Well, this particular one knew something, that’s for damn sure,” Tristan said. “In a weird way, I trust him to look after Gráinne, at least temporarily. It almost felt like Athanasius Fugger came to the Tearsheet to clean up my mess.”
“Our mess,” I corrected him.
“Les Holgate’s mess,” Erszebet said.
“Anyway, Gráinne’s part of that mess and Fugger’s overall vibe was like I got this, fool, get out of here. So I got out, with Rose’s help. I don’t know what Rose really thinks of this project either now, but she at least was calm enough to realize that there was no benefit to anyone, for me to remain. That’s why she Sent me back. I wouldn’t call it a working relationship yet.” Tristan sat back in his chair, wincing from the arm injury, and sighed. “Anyway, so let’s avoid 1601 London. Maybe go to early 1602 and see how Gráinne has recovered and if she’s still willing to work with us.”
Frank Oda had been gazing thoughtfully into space. “If Sir Edward Greylock’s existence has been obliterated across the multiverse,” he said, “that should mean the maple syrup boiler does not come into existence in any Strand.”
Erszebet considered this. “There is possibly some other Strand where another investor might be approached to fund it, but I would say you are most likely correct.”
“How long will it take you to calculate that likelihood?” Tristan asked Erszebet.
Immediately the standard look of contempt. “How can I tell you?” she said. “I have been tricked. Les Holgate stole my számológép.” And then a look of horror came over her face just as it occurred to myself and to the Odas: “Now we may never recover it.”
Tristan looked weary. “I missed that—what?”
“Your rude boss in Washington with the big table, he forced me into sending Les Holgate back to that DTAP by stealing my számológép, and now it is lost.” She was so distressed by this realization that she was enervated, and so seemed oddly calm. “This means I will never perform magic again.”
Tristan, exhausted, misread her meaning. “Are you saying you quit?”
She clearly had not been thinking that—until he said it. “I cannot work without my számológép,” she said harshly. “It is gone. Because of very bad people. So yes, I will quit. This is all hülyeség.” She rose from the table.
“Where are you going?” asked Tristan, not even turning to look at her. “Where do you intend to live and work and pass your time? You’re an immigrant without a legal identity and pretty much no marketable skills.”
She paused at the door. “Your boss is a terrible man,” she said, sounding on the verge of tears.
“He did a terrible thing,” Tristan agreed unhappily. “And a terrible price has been paid for it.”
“But your walking away right now does nothing for you,” I added.
“I cannot Send anyone without my számológép!” she said. “It is too dangerous!” For a moment, I could see the very-very-very old woman peering out from her stormy, youthful eyes.
“I might be able to help you with that,” said Frank Oda. “I was starting to get the hang of it. Give me a few days and I might have something to show you.”
Erszebet gave him a wearied, disbelieving look.
“Meanwhile,” I said, treading gently, “you do not need the számológép to Send me back to the 1640 Cambridge DTAP, and we are so very close to accomplishing this thing. Please do not abandon us quite yet. You will get your share of the money. We’ll find your passport in Les’s things. We’ll buy you new plane tickets to Hungary, if we must. You’ll never have to speak to Frink again.”
There was a long moment as she stood in the doorway, troubled. Then whatever was going on inside her resolved itself, and she nodded once, decisively. “All right,” she said. “I am not happy to be doing this, but I will help you complete the mission with the psalm book. But let us do it now, and be done with it already.”
I have already described the events of my DEDE enough times—for indeed, I had lived through them enough times!—that I need not recount them now in detail. I now knew what to expect so well, knew the nuances of all these people who thought that they were meeting me for the first time (although as usual Stephen Day, the printer, commented that there was something very familiar about me).
Having been clothed by Mary Fitch, hauled by Goodman Griggs, ferried by the handsome brothers, having conned Hezekiah Usher and Stephen Day, having avoided the lechery of the cooper . . . having done all of these things as efficiently as possible, I headed out on the Watertown Road in the soggy August air, sealed bucket under my arm, using the shovel as a walking stick . . . praying that this time, I would not see that fucking boiler-foundation.
I did not. Th
e erasure of Sir Edward Greylock from Elizabethan London had likewise erased all his possible investments, including this one.
Heartened by this, I measured out the length of my arm away from the boulder, and dug the length of my arm in depth. The clam and oyster shells seemed like old friends as I unearthed them. I settled the bucket in the hole, shoveled all the soil back in, stamped it down with unwonted exuberance, and headed back, a final time, toward Cambridge.
And then as ever, returning through the town, across on the ferry, back along the oxcart path, to the home of Goody Fitch. A final conversation with her and her young daughter Elizabeth about working with us. And then home.
Journal Entry of
Rebecca East-Oda
AUGUST 22
Temperature 89F. Dusty, dry. Barometer steady. Lettuce bolted. Kale ready to harvest but will be too bitter. Perennial herbs in fine form. Asters magnificent.
It finally happened today. In the former vegetable garden, which had been dug up so often earlier in the summer but lately lay unmolested while Tristan went to the London DTAP. We gathered around it. Mel dug a hole. Tristan has one arm in a homemade sling he had fashioned from two T-shirts tied together, and could not dig; Erszebet was in stockings and heels; Mel insisted Frank and I are age-exempted. So she dug it all herself. No doubt it gave her satisfaction, for all the times she had to bury it before.
And there it was. The barrel. Quite small, and very old, and soft around the edges where damp had found its way into the wood. But not rotted away. That cooper knew his business.
I have not been to a DTAP. I was not in residence during Erszebet’s first few weeks exploring her powers in the ODEC. Other than seeing her transform herself, this was my first concrete experience of magic. I have seen that plot dug up a dozen times, and it has never contained a small well-sealed barrel containing an unspeakably valuable seventeenth-century hymnal.